What I Wasn't Looking For

The folder labeled in my own hand,

2018 bleeding at the edges.

I wasn't looking for you.

Just the insurance card, proof I exist

on someone's system.

But here you are—both of us,

your hand on the small of my back

like you owned something there.

We're grinning in that church light,

the kind that makes anyone look forgiven.

I don't know who that person is

in the white shirt.

I don't know her mouth.

The photo is still there.

She's still smiling.